Begin to Breathe
by mochiinvasions
Summary: It is moments like this that Joan loves the most. Fem!Johnlock for a friend's birthday.


**Title:** Begin to Breathe  
**Author: **AkaYuki2106  
**Rating:** T  
**Characters/Pairings:** fem!John/fem!Sherlock  
**Summary:** It is times like this Joan loves the most.  
**Soundtrack:** "Passenger Seat" by Death Cab for Cutie  
**Warnings:** Fluff, little bit of kissing and be warned, this is my first Sherlock fic.  
**Info:** Little fem!slash, written for a friend who's birthday it is today. Apologies if I killed the characters, I've never written Johnlock before and I rarely read it, so I had to headcanon my way through XD

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It is the times like this that Joan loves the most, when the world is silent and they are its only two beings, staring across at each other like each time is the first time again. She loves the thrill of the chase, the happiness when Shirley figures something out, and yes, even the heart-stopping, breath-taking, world-shattering moments when Shirley is in danger and she can't make the extra centimetre to save her, but it is the silent moments that she loves the most.

When it's late at night and they are silently speeding halfway across the country, for some mystery that probably won't be a mystery after all but yet another one of Shirley's mental chases, some mysterious puzzle that only she understands while Joan is left to pick up the pieces and get them around and book the room in the hotel and they say two beds but in the morning one is always left empty. When the mornings are crisp and the air warm and she feels two arms descend around her shoulders as she contemplates the news over a cup of tea and warm lips capture her own as she leans her head back and Shirley smiles at her, her smile upside down, and they take half a moment for themselves before the world catches up to them.

When Shirley reaches across the gap in their seats to take her hand when she thinks no-one would notice, and when Joan opens her mouth she shakes her head, no words permitted in this moment, and Joan lets it slide like she always does, and merely tightens her hand. When she takes her hand in the heat of the moment, eyes alight with excitement as her mind runs miles ahead of people and her thoughts take flight in her winged words which dance around the room as she smiles, not at Joan, not at anyone, but merely her own cleverness, the next puzzle solved.

When she sits down next to Joan as they wait in the police room and she presses just a little too close, the warmth welcome as she unconsciously leans against her, arms and legs touching as if the sofa were too small when really it's the perfect size for both of them. The warmth when Shirley presses her hand against Joan's back as she leads her around a scene, explaining things as if the crime is happening before her very eyes, mouth running a mile a minute and mind running even faster, and Joan feels just the tiniest thrill somewhere in her chest as her hand lingers just a moment more than it needs to, the longing clear to her but secret to others, assumptions maybe but no cold hard facts, the truth hidden in the rumour.

It is these moments that Joan loves the most, and these moments she treasures and keep close in her heart when she feels Shirley drifting away, "married to my work" she said and sometimes it feels that way, but then Shirley's hands are warm on her skin again and she remembers that if her brain belongs to the chase then her heart belongs to the shorter woman with the dull blonde hair who is constantly running behind her and keeping her human.

She considers this as they sit on the train, her other half opposite her deep in thought, no doubt solving their current case and considering other puzzles at the same time, this and that floating through her mind, though perhaps speeding would be a better phrase, the way her mind runs at lightning pace. Lights low, Joan checks her watch and looks back up, Shirley gazing back, all sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes and curling hair lying flush against a pale neck and she looks away quickly, ever mindful of their surroundings, though as Shirley mutters something, pale lips fluttering softly, she wants nothing more than to lean across the space dividing them and fold herself into her arms. "I'm going to try and sleep" she murmurs, and Shirley nods, eyes low, seeming to consider for a second before looking straight at her, and Joan can't deny the stutter her heart feels at the _intensity_ of her gaze, eyes always so focused no matter what she looks at, be it a criminal or a crime scene or Joan's own grey-blue ones. "Sit next to me," she says, the rest of the sentence unspoken, a desire passing between two hearts and Joan doesn't speak, merely slides out of her seat and into Shirley's, leaning into her chest and feeling her arm settle around her, fingers unconsciously tangling into her hair and she breathes in deeply, inhaling her scent, though she'd never admit it. "It's only a few hours," Shirley murmurs under her breath, "and you'll hurt your neck if you sleep with your head against the window".

Joan smiles at that, at Shirley's pitiful excuses to have her nearer and mutters back, "You don't need to make excuses you know. Not with me."

"I know," she says, "but I always have."

"To be touched". She doesn't say it but the words hang in the air, rules constructed to keep her safe and sound, to keep her heart locked up inside her. "Caring is not an advantage". Rules that Joan breaks, walls she tears down, habits she breaks with her simple, easy affection, so easy to hide between the guise of friendship that maybe is just a little closer than what normal friends are like. Maybe they are both longing for it, the human touch, Shirley to remind herself that she really is human, Joan to conquer the all-encompassing loneliness that is life after a war, where people try and understand and sympathise and fail, leaving her in the end more lonely than before, endless faces passing by as she tries to find someone who understands and instead finds someone who places no more weight on the fact that she was an army doctor than she would if she was a normal doctor, and who sometimes forgets but never utilises, never tries to understand the parts of Joan's mind that are a mystery even to herself, never tries to talk to her when she wakes at 3 am, sweat sliding down her sides as the nightmare freezes her limbs, merely waits for her with open arms when she returns to the warm bed.

"Don't." Joan simply says, and buries her head against her neck. "Just try and sleep."

It's not the most comfortable way to sleep but it's warm and it's familiar and a few hours later when the conductor wakes them, Joan smiles, knowing Shirley has spent the whole time with her head buried in Joan's hair too.

It is these moments that Joan loves the most, and in-between their first meeting in a cold lab and their current closeness and hands on backs and fingers entwined and heads buried in necks and soft kisses to skin and the way their hands feel pressed together and the way Shirley's lips feel against hers and the way her name sounds when whispered in Shirley's voice she finds she has fallen in love.

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Here you go Xander, I hope you enjoy it. Fem!slash because I've written so much of it recently I've forgotten how to yaoi (not really), and my normal Johnlock headcanon is too confusing and probably not what you want. It's 4am here so I'm totally derping over what to write here, so happy birthday, enjoy, and to the reader, as always, any questions, comments, suggestions or critiques, please drop me a review X3


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